


Human Touch

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doctor/Patient, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Phantom pain, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after an accident caused the amputation of his hand, Jaime Lannister is still suffering from debilitating phantom pain. His search for a solution takes him to the resort town of Evenfall, and the office of Dr. Brienne Tarth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in February 2014, so it's been percolating a long time. I have done some research for this, but as usual all mistakes are my fault.
> 
> The title comes from "Human Touch" by Bruce Springsteen.

**I. Brienne**

The man seated across the desk from Dr. Brienne Tarth is not like most of her patients. 

Those patients lean forward eagerly, hope and anxiety shining in their eyes. Jaime Lannister leans back in the chair, regarding Brienne with a mix of contempt and boredom. He’s seen a lot of doctors, but none were able to help him. The fat file in front of her testifies to that. 

Brienne wonders if her patient has any idea how detailed his file is. From his expression, she thinks not. Surgical records, family history, physical therapy reports, and psychological evaluations. A thick stack of letters, one doctor writing to the next, each hopeful that the next doctor would have a solution for him.

Jaime Lannister sits across from her in a mockery of ease and openness, his leg crossed on the opposite knee, dressed casually in jeans, a polo shirt, and slip-on shoes. His posture is as casual as his clothes, but his body is taut as a bowstring, the muscles of his right arm twitching sporadically and his left hand unconsciously clenching into a fist. His right hand cannot clench because he no longer has one, but his brain has not yet accepted that. 

Phantom limb syndrome, not uncommon among amputees and an area of special interest for Brienne. Some patients find that their symptoms fade with time. Jaime Lannister has been suffering for three years. Every day, his phantom right hand clenches into a fist, locked tight for hours, nails digging into his palm. It causes him excruciating pain. 

Brienne shifts her gaze up to his face. Jaime Lannister is an extremely attractive man, though his arrogant smirk somewhat spoils the effect. He clearly doesn’t take Brienne particularly seriously. This is nothing new. Most of her patients are referred to her by other doctors, yet the moment patients see her, they doubt her. At 33, Brienne is young and not yet widely published, but her results speak for themselves. 

Brienne flips open her notebook to a blank page and picks up her pen. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” she begins.

He snorts and stands abruptly. “If you couldn’t be bothered to read my file, you’re wasting my time.”

“Sit down, Mr. Lannister,” Brienne orders, only her eyes following his movement. This voice she uses rarely, the one she learned from her drill-sergeant father. He never needed to raise his voice. The steel in his tone was enough. It’s enough now. 

Jaime Lannister slowly sits, his arms folded protectively across his chest, the stocking-covered stump of his right wrist tucked under his left arm.  At least the boredom has left his gaze. 

 

**II. Jaime**

He can’t remember if Dr. Tarth is the nineteenth or twentieth doctor he’s consulted. It hardly matters. She will prove no different from the rest. Jaime knows this from bitter experience. 

Dr. Tarth is by far the youngest doctor he’s seen since the wide-eyed interns who’d followed his surgeons around like ducklings. In theory, she should be familiar with the latest techniques, her training modern and cutting-edge. In practice, she is inexperienced. Awkward, as well. A big woman in an ill-fitting gray pantsuit and white lab coat, she is also no stranger to scars, the memory of some long-ago trauma branded into her twisted cheek. 

Her eyes are promising, at least. Quick, perceptive, an arresting shade of blue. She looked him directly in the eye, her gaze never drifting down to his missing hand. And she offered her left hand to shake when he walked into her office. It’s amazing how many doctors forget that small detail.

Jaime will go through the motions, try whatever therapies she recommends ( _within reason_ ), and remind himself that at least Evenfall is a welcome change of scenery. The quaint little island resort town is a far cry from the last clinic he visited. Dr. Qyburn worked in a ruined castle near a dull, grey lake. For Jaime it was like walking into a Gothic horror novel. He stayed at Harrenhal for three weeks, and every day he expected Dracula’s vampire brides to emerge from the shadows. 

Dr. Tarth looks up from her notebook, flips his file shut. She rests one large hand lightly on the bulging manila folder. “I’ve read your file. Several times, in fact. What I asked, Mr. Lannister, is why are you  _here_?” Her tone brooks no argument, but holds a note of exasperation Jaime remembers well from the headmasters of every prep school unfortunate enough to enroll him. 

Jaime considers what to say. He wants his hand back, but Dr. Tarth can’t give him that. Magic left this world long ago, if it ever existed at all. 

Jaime found her through an online support group for amputees. It was full of military veterans with whom he had little in common, so Jaime usually just read others’ conversations rather than contribute. Two of the men strongly recommended Evenfall, and Dr. Tarth in particular, both claiming that she gave them their lives back.

Sitting in her over air conditioned, aggressively neat office, Jaime doesn’t believe that this strapping young woman can work miracles. But the throbbing pain focused in his missing hand, radiating up his arm, has become too much to bear. Three years is long enough. Pain is grinding him away, and if he goes on like this much longer there won’t be anything left. 

He looks directly into Dr. Tarth’s blue eyes and answers her question. “I’m here to stop living in pain.”

The slightest smile curves her wide mouth, and she nods. “Good,” Dr. Tarth says, a hint of relief in her tone he wasn’t expecting. “That’s a realistic goal.”

Jaime regards her more closely. “You’ve been asked to work miracles,” he guesses.

This time she really smiles, broad and toothy. Dr. Tarth is not pretty, wasn’t pretty even before the scar, but her smile lights up her eyes. “At least twice a month, a patient walks through that door carrying journal articles about stem cells and lizards regrowing their tails,” she confirms with a sigh. 

Jaime shivers, remembering the lab full of lizards he once walked past at Harrenhal. Best not to tell her about that. He returns her smile, tries to lighten the mood. “I’ll settle for a cyborg hand. You can do that, right? Gold, of course. I’ve had enough silver. And bronze for that matter.”

The dusty display case in his apartment holds five Olympic medals. None of them are gold. The irony isn’t lost on him. All the gold in Casterly Rock couldn’t buy him a gold medal, and he was never quite good enough on his own.

She raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. “Gold? Wouldn’t that be a bit conspicuous?”

Jaime laughs. “They used to say that my father shit gold. They were wrong, of course. But if a gold hand is all the gold I can have, I’ll take it.” 

Dr. Tarth’s gaze falls briefly on his right arm. The pain flares as if she touched him.

There are no recent photos of his stump in her file. Jaime knows that because he hasn’t allowed any photos since it healed. There were skin grafts and it is brutal and ugly. That Jaime must see it every day is bad enough. He wears a sock over the stump all the time, even when he’s not wearing a prosthesis. It protects the tender skin and allows him to avoid questions he tired of answering long ago. 

Is she weary of questions too? Jaime allows his gaze to settle on the twisted scarring of her cheek. It has faded, but that side of her face is still somewhat stiff, and even at a distance he would have noticed something was wrong. The rest of her face is lightly bronzed from the sun, densely splattered with freckles, but that cheek is silvery pale. Jaime loathes that he now knows enough about scarring to tell that this wound was inflicted years ago. 

Her unmarked cheek flushes a dull rose that spreads down her throat and pools in the slight dip of her open collar. She knows exactly what he is looking at, and her gaze drops to her notebook, pen tapping against the paper as if to distract herself from his scrutiny.

The brief moment of rapport between them evaporates, and Jaime decides he has nothing to lose by pushing Dr. Tarth a bit.

“You know what happened to me. Tell me, what happened to you?”

 

** III. Brienne **

Brienne’s eyes snap up to meet his. She expects mocking; she expects pity. That Jaime Lannister’s green eyes hold only curiosity throws her briefly off balance.

Brienne clears her throat. “My personal life is out of bounds, Mr. Lannister. It’s not relevant to your treatment,” she says firmly. He’s certainly not the first patient to ask.

His eyes narrow, and he leans forward, his fingers tapping the desk in front of his file. “Is my personal life out of bounds?” he challenges.

Maybe he does know what’s in his file. He has seen three psychiatrists in the last three years, and their notes paint a bleak picture. Depression, anxiety, dysfunctional family of origin, inadequate coping skills, addictive personality. “Your personal life is relevant to your treatment. Mine is not.” 

Jaime Lannister frowns. He’s used to people being cowed by his father’s reputation and wealth, and his own fame. He is not often denied what he wants. “You probably know more about me than some of my family members, Doc. I asked you one question.” 

One question. One question about the worst day of her life, the five minutes that replayed in her nightmares for years. Brienne looks down at her notes, writes _Suggest cognitive-behavioral therapy._ She does not look up when she hears him moving. If he tries to leave again, she won’t stop him. He is a prickly puzzle of a man, but only one of many. Brienne has a waiting list for new patients. She doesn’t need Jaime Lannister.

The thump on her desk startles her. 

Her patient’s bare stump is resting on her desk. The skin is mottled and rubbed raw in places, a thick, dark line of scar tissue running along the inside of his wrist where grafted skin doesn’t quite match its surroundings.

Brienne meets Jaime’s eyes, sees the challenge there. If he’s waiting for her to recoil, he will be disappointed. She was a surgeon once. Nothing he could show Brienne would shock her. “You wear a prosthesis?” she asks.

Jaime seems disappointed in her lack of response. He nods. “I have a few.” 

“One of them doesn’t fit properly. That pain is aggravating your issues,” Brienne tells him. 

Jaime removes his forearm from the desk. “I’ll get them re-fitted when I get home,” he concedes, working a beige stocking up over his stump to hide it. She assumed that he removed his prosthesis for their appointment, but now she wonders if he always covers his stump. That’s unusual this long after amputation. 

Brienne notes his behavior, pulls out her prescription pad, and starts writing. “Give this to my receptionist on your way out. Pod will make appointments with the prosthetist and a psychiatrist.”

“I said I’d deal with it when I got home,” Jaime argues. “And I don’t need another bloody shrink.”

Brienne keeps writing. She expects push-back. Most patients want results with little or no effort on their parts. Jaime Lannister is no different. “An excellent prosthetist from Storm’s End visits Evenfall Hospital on Mondays. I can’t begin treatment until we can isolate phantom pain from physical pain. As for the _shrink_ , Sam is an expert on pain management strategies. You will see him or we are done here.”

Brienne rips out the orders for Pod and pushes them across the desk. 

Jaime doesn’t move. 

Brienne goes to the door, holds it open for him. She’s running about twenty minutes late this morning, and she’ll have to work through lunch if she falls much further behind. Brienne refuses to be one of those doctors who keep patients waiting for hours past their appointment time. One of Hyle’s nurses bustles past, and a patient sitting in the hallway looks up hopefully. 

Jaime still hasn’t moved.

Brienne grits her teeth. “Mr. Lannister, I have other patients,” she prompts.

“Then answer me.” His back is to her. He won’t even turn his head to look at her. 

Brienne sighs. She understands why he’s pushing this, trying to put them on even footing. But he can find out on the Internet, if he really wants to. If his stubbornness right now is any indication, he will. 

“A patient bit me,” Brienne says simply. Her face tingles. ( _Her cheek burned, blood ran into her ear, soaked her hair. His face loomed above her, blood coating his pointed teeth, dripping from his chin._ )  

She pushes away the memory, anchors herself with the scent of flowers at the nurses’ station, the distant chatter of the office staff, the bright sun pouring through the window at the end of the hall.

Jaime rises from his chair, picks up the orders she’s written. His gaze slides from Brienne’s cheek to her eyes as he finally leaves her office. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

** IV. Jaime **

He sips his drink slowly, watches the boats sailing into harbor as afternoon turns to evening. Warm sun, salt air. He can see why this town draws tourists. It’s not flashy, but the people are genuinely nice and no one seems to recognize him. Small mercies.

Jaime pulls out his tablet and rests it on the table beside the small plate of mozzarella sticks he’s been nibbling on while waiting for his meal.

Dr. Tarth is easy enough to find online. He researched her qualifications months ago, when he booked the appointment. She attended university at Storm’s End, medical school and a neurosurgery internship at Highgarden. Then she abruptly switched to a neurology residency at Riverrun, followed by private practice here on Tarth. He supposes she must be related to the family for whom the island was named, like how Lannisport is named for his ancestors. 

Jaime opens a new tab, loads the  _ Highgarden Herald _ and searches for Brienne Tarth in its archives. There are three news stories, all six years old. The oldest simply lists her marathon finish time among hundreds of others. The second is a short article about her attack. A neurosurgeon and an intern at Highgarden University Medical Center were attacked by a delusional patient. The surgeon was killed. Details are lacking, but the patient overpowered two people, killing one. It must have been brutal. The last is a summary of the inquiry which cleared Dr. Tarth of any culpability in her supervisor's death. Jaime has been the subject of enough news stories to be able to read between the lines. The hospital wanted to blame Dr. Tarth, and she was forced out. 

Jaime navigates away from the newspaper articles. They confirm what he saw in the doctor’s eyes. She understands, more than the others did, what it’s like to have your life changed in an instant, and to carry that moment with you every day.

For the first time in months, Jaime dares to hope he might feel normal again. 

The closest he has come was wearing a robotic hand that responded to the movements of muscles in his forearm. When it worked, it worked well. He could grasp objects but not tie shoes or write. But his pain is often accompanied by muscle spasms in his right arm. The spasms rendered both prosthesis and phantom hand fisted so hard as to draw blood if he had any in either. Finally one day Jaime ripped the hand off and threw it against the wall. That was the day the prosthetist gently suggested therapy. 

At first, Jaime ignored that suggestion. But as the weeks passed, Jaime’s world shrank down again to the sensations in his absent hand. Air moving over skin, chilled fingertips on cold mornings, water running across the back of his hand in the shower. He could live with that, if not for the pain. The doctors had no trouble prescribing painkillers or giving him nerve blocks. They insisted his brain would adjust, that most people saw a decrease in pain as time passed. Jaime did not.

Psychiatrists told him that more drugs would help. First antidepressants, then anti-anxiety, and finally both. For once Jaime was happy to be single, otherwise he might have been embarrassed rather than just frustrated by the side effects that left him struggling to find release alone with his clumsy left hand. Orgasm was one of the few things that stopped the pain, if only briefly. Tyrion suggested hiring a discreet call girl, but Jaime wasn’t interested in having a stranger stare at his mangled arm while she sucked him off. 

When Jaime took his pills, he felt numb, lacking the will to do anything more than sit in his recliner watching sports and drinking far more than his doctors thought prudent. He showed up drunk to his father’s funeral, missed saying good-bye when Tyrion left to explore Essos, and eventually stopped leaving his apartment at all. ( _Thank the Seven for grocery delivery._ ) Weeks passed before Aunt Genna arrived and poured both pills and alcohol down the drain, twisting his ear for good measure. Genna hired a girl to look after him once she learned that stopping his anti-anxiety medication cold turkey gave Jaime severe vertigo, but he sent the girl away after she climbed into his bed one night. 

Stripped of every tool he’d used to dull his pain, Jaime spent the next two years going from doctor to doctor, north to Winterfell and south to Sunspear, west to Casterly Rock and East to Pentos. A doctor in Oldtown insisted that freezing nerves in his wrist would deaden the pain. Jaime still had strange numb spots on his skin, but the pain remained. In Pentos, Jaime didn't realize the doctor had sent him to a Lyseni massage parlor until the lovely blonde masseuse wrapped her hand, slick with fragrant oils, around his cock.

Fed up with offers of the same handful of ineffective treatments, Jaime finally turned to the Internet. His research led him to the Harrenhal Clinic and Dr. Qyburn, a man whose numerous censures by the medical board left him unable to officially practice medicine. As clinic director, he skirted those restrictions by having staff administer his experimental treatments. When Jaime learned that Qyburn was trying to attach cadaver limbs to living subjects, he packed up and left. He had no interest in becoming Frankenstein’s monster.

Jaime first heard about Dr. Tarth a few weeks later, but two weeks passed before he could make himself call her office. Her first available appointment wasn’t for three months.

 

** V. Brienne **

Brienne sits on her couch, notes spread out on the coffee table before her, a pen tucked behind her ear. Half-empty takeout containers and a single glass of wine clutter the side table. She rewinds the DVD she found in his file again.

Bear Island was supposed to be Jaime Lannister’s fourth and final Olympics, one last chance for gold after two bronze and three silver medals in one-man and two-man luge. On the third day of training, the morning of the Opening Ceremony, Jaime was the first luger down the track—also the last, as it turned out. Coming out of a turn, the sled hit a tiny flaw in the ice. The recording showed him trying to steer through it, but Jaime was still out of control going into the next curve, and the sled went too far up the wall. The sled tipped, fell on top of him, trapping him underneath it as man and sled careened down the frozen track at 85 miles an hour. 

This time Brienne stops the video before the ruined sled is lifted off of him, revealing Jaime Lannister’s broken form beneath it, his green eyes frantic and horribly aware. She recognizes that look, the moment when he knew that life as he’d known it was over. 

Jaime had some sort of breakdown about six months after his accident. Those records are spotty, but after that he visited a new doctor roughly every two months. Since the causes of phantom pain are still disputed, different doctors offer different treatments. Brienne believes that pain can have multiple causes, and that stress and other psychological factors can contribute as well. Her approach is less invasive than most, eschewing nerve blocks and electrical stimulation in favor of retraining the brain.

Even before Jaime Lannister showed up in her office full of empty bravado and mistrust, Brienne intended to send him to Sam Tarly. She was concerned that Jaime’s doctor-hopping might indicate drug-seeking behaviors. Addiction is common among patients with chronic pain, and even more common without family support. But his bloodwork came back clean. The questionnaire he filled out indicated that he rarely even drinks. Jaime is actually one of the physically healthiest patients she’s ever treated. 

His psychiatric reports paint a very different picture. Even before the trauma of the accident, Jaime’s childhood left him with emotional scars. His father was unavailable at best, abusive at worst, especially with his brother, a dwarf. The brother’s birth killed his mother, an affectionate but distant figure in Jaime’s memories. While he refused to discuss his twin sister in much detail, all of Jaime’s psychiatrists noted serious co-dependency in their relationship, with some troubling sexual overtones. What little support his family provided is long gone. His father is dead, his brother living overseas, his sister awaiting trial for premeditated murder.

Sam will have to deal with their patient’s psyche. Brienne never studied psychiatry, but she has found that patients who are depressed or anxious manifest more problems with pain and have poor treatment outcomes. 

Brienne makes a list of the many treatments and therapies Jaime Lannister has tried, then gathers up his files and turns back to the handful of studies and journal articles she thinks might be of use. Her eyes are tired and her back is stiff when she puts down her laptop, but she knows what course to take. 

Unsurprisingly, the newest treatments for phantom limb pain are coming out of Slaver’s Bay, where test subjects are plentiful. A pair of Qartheen doctors have pioneered a treatment that takes advantage of signals in the brain that match up what we see with what we feel. The brain, accustomed to receiving signals from the now-missing limb, generates continued sensation. This new therapy takes advantage of those signals to tell the brain that the missing limb is not painful. 

It is so simple that Brienne didn’t believe it would work. Then she watched the videos. The damaged limb is placed in a box with a mirror on one side. The mirror reflects the undamaged limb. The eyes see two undamaged limbs. In at least half of the study’s subjects, over time the brain was trained to believe both limbs are undamaged and free of pain. 

She is not surprised that a rich man like Jaime Lannister was never offered this option. Westerosi doctors tend to scoff at any innovation from Essos. Brienne can only hope that her patient will not share that opinion.

 

** VI. Jaime **

The pier reminds Jaime strongly of Lannisport. Same bright sun sparkling on the water, same obnoxious seagulls, same old men in ugly bucket hats fishing off the side of the pier. 

Dr. Sam Tarly asked Jaime to meet him here, which is odd enough, but Jaime doesn’t feel like waiting around all afternoon for the man to show up. He should have asked what Tarly looks like, or looked him up. Jaime fumbles his phone out of his pocket as he reaches the end of the pier, but tucks it away when he notices the one fisherman who doesn’t fit: a rotund younger man in a ballcap, cargo shorts, a faded green T-shirt, and neon orange rubber clogs. The young man anchors his fishing pole against the railing and turns to smile at Jaime. 

Jaime is used to dark offices with squeaky leather couches, elderly men in suits asking, “And how does that make you feel?” This is not at all what he expected. 

“Dr. Tarly?” Jaime asks warily. 

“Sam, please, Mr. Lannister,” he replies, holding out a hand for Jaime to shake. His left hand. Jaime shakes it, but he can’t take Sam Tarly seriously. The shrink has a ridiculous excuse for a beard and may actually be younger than Dr. Tarth. 

“Look, Sam, I don’t know what the doc told you, but I really don’t need another shrink,” Jaime says quietly. Just because he doesn’t live here doesn’t mean he wants to be seen talking to a psychiatrist. 

Leaning against the railing, Sam squints up at Jaime. “With all due respect, you’re not a doctor. Dr. Tarth thinks you need help, so you’re going to give me the next hour. Maybe two.” He’s firm, almost brusque, unexpected after his warm introduction. 

Jaime looks around them. One of the fishermen is smoking a cigarette and watching them idly. “Do we have to do this out here?” 

Sam shrugs. “Of course not. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d show up. I like to get out here at least once a week.” The psychiatrist begins packing up his gear.

“Fishing? I don’t get the allure,” Jaime admits, wincing at the unintentional pun. 

Picking up his tackle box, Sam starts back down the pier, Jaime trailing behind him. “Fresh air, sun, the rhythm of the waves. It’s meditation, Mr. Lannister. Do you have something like that?”

Meditation. Nonsense suggested to Jaime once before, by a woman from Asshai who spent an hour every day staring into a fire. “It’s not for me. I need to  do  something, not sit around thinking.”

Sam glances back over his shoulder at Jaime. “I think we can find something that will work for you, Mr. Lannister.”

A short walk brings them to a small apartment building right on the beach. Sam’s living room apparently doubles as his office, but Jaime doesn’t mind. Large windows look out over the beach, sailboats bobbing in the distance. 

Sam settles into a worn club chair, a notebook in his lap, Jaime’s file tucked beneath it. He kicks off his shoes and jots something in the notebook. “Why do you think Dr. Tarth sent you here?”

Jaime sits stiffly in another chair, deliberately avoiding the squashy plaid couch. His prosthesis bumps against his thigh. His arm aches. Jaime glances down at the useless plastic hand, one of three he currently owns. Even while he looks at its open palm and slightly bent fingers, Jaime can feel his hand clenched, muscles burning. The adjustments the prosthetist made to the cradle yesterday eased some of his general discomfort, but today Jaime has been keenly aware of his right hand from the moment he woke, groggy and still gripped by nightmares. 

“Mr. Lannister?” Sam prompts.

“Jaime,” he corrects. 

Sam smiles indulgently. "Jaime, why do you think you're here?"

Jaime takes a deep breath. "Nightmares, panic attacks, insomnia," he suggests, ignoring the voice in his head that continues  _ addiction, depression, rage. _

"Among other things," Sam agrees. "Let's start with sleep and go from there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's accident was partially modeled on the death of Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili on February 12, 2010 at the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, Canada.
> 
> Mirror box therapy was pioneered by V.S. Ramachandran, who published his findings in 1998.


	3. Chapter 3

** VII. Brienne **

Evenfall is where Brienne belongs. This she knows with absolute certainty, reminds herself each morning when she wakes well before dawn to run on the beach and watch the sun rise over the southeastern shore of the island.

In her teens, when some of the local boys took pleasure in treating her with open cruelty, she’d been desperate to leave. For a tall, ugly, painfully shy girl, Tarth was too small. 

Storm's End was better, though Brienne never made the close circle of friends other students all seemed to find. She had a few dates, lost her virginity, only had to punch one guy for thinking that dinner and a couple of lame compliments entitled him to a blowjob. 

In medical school Brienne found that her classmates were no friendlier, but she was sought after for her intelligence and skill. No one had time to date, but they found other ways to relieve stress. Brienne carried that habit over into residency, sometimes needing a quick fuck in the on-call room to forget about a bad week or a dead patient. She doesn't do that anymore, no matter how many times Hyle Hunt, the neurosurgeon sharing her office, offers his services. 

The island fits her better now. Brienne has her work, her triathlon training, a network of colleagues she keeps in loose contact with through social media, and a lazy old dog with arthritic hips.  

Brienne usually has the beach to herself, but on this morning dawn finds two people sitting on the cool sand, a few hundred feet apart. When the distant stranger walks toward her, Brienne doesn’t move. At her size, few men pose her any danger, and this one is likely headed for the parking lot behind her. 

She is surprised when Jaime Lannister sits beside her, dropping his running shoes behind them and digging bare feet into the cool, moist sand. His shoes fasten with a bungee closure instead of laces. They look new. His clothes look new too, black jersey shorts and a Tarth Island tourist hoodie. He is not wearing a prosthesis, his stump hidden inside his sleeve. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says with a hint of a smile. 

“I come here every day,” Brienne says, wishing for just a few more minutes of quiet solitude before her day begins. “Did Sam suggest that you take up running?” 

She has never been comfortable seeing her patients outside of the office. Brienne hates this, how any conversation with a patient turns into a consultation, but she had to ask. Still, it doesn’t seem right, dispensing medical advice in a sweaty tank top. 

At least Jaime Lannister will only be here for a month or two if treatment goes as planned. Sam told her he would need at least that long to work through Lannister’s insomnia and try some adjustments to his medications. Much as she loves her morning ritual, it won’t kill her to run closer to home for a few weeks. 

“Sam says I need to stay active. Something about endorphins. Anyway, after a lot of stupid suggestions I can’t do anymore, we settled on running.” Jaime winces a little, his hand coming up to massage his right forearm.

Brienne considers pretending she doesn’t see that he’s in pain, but that’s ridiculous. His pain is why he’s here, and helping people like him is why she spends so much time at the office. The hallway of her office is papered with thank you letters from former patients, a reminder for her and encouragement for new patients.

“Are you taking the Cymbalta yet?” 

He sighs, flops back in the sand. “Yeah, Doc. Not until breakfast though. Makes me nauseous otherwise. And a little dizzy. Thought it’d be best if I wasn’t stumbling around the beach throwing up.”

“The dizziness should go away.” 

“Well, that’s something,” Jaime concedes. “It’s not doing shit for the pain.”

It’s been a few days, too early to tell for sure, but Brienne doesn’t expect the Cymbalta to work on his pain. It’s a mood stabilizer that has shown some effect on peripheral neuropathy, but previous treatments indicate that the nerves in his arm likely aren’t the source of his pain. “That’s what the Vicodin is for.”

Jaime laughs, and she looks down at him. He is looking up at the brightening sky, and his shorts are riding high on his upper thighs. Patches of shiny scars run up his right leg where the ice took off some of his skin. “I hate that shit. Makes my head feel like a helium balloon. You know what I mean.”

She’s not used to such casual references to her attack. Most people pretend they don’t see her scar, like they’re doing her a favor by not acknowledging it. The numbness painkillers provided was welcome in the days after Renly’s death, when crying hurt so badly and she just couldn’t stop. “We can try other drugs,” she reminds him. 

“Which one, Doc? I tried them all. Ended up with hiccups, heartburn, constipation, dry mouth, nausea, dizziness.” He smiles bitterly. “I know, how about we try the one that numbed my cock so I couldn’t come? Oh wait, that was most of them.” 

It’s different, hearing him talk out here in the open air. She misses her white coat, her charts, her distance. “It’s your choice, but with your pain levels so high, anything I do might be like throwing a bucket of water on a wildfire.”

Jaime rocks back up to a seated position. Damp sand clings to the back of his hoodie. “At least you're honest. If there’s nothing else out there, I’ll just keep dealing with it."

Guilt prickles at Brienne’s neck. “There is something else,” she says hesitantly. “But it’s not exactly legal here.”

“Are you suggesting that I break the law, Doc?” Jaime’s eyes are sparkling and he’s grinning. Clearly this is not something he expected from her.

“No, of course not,” Brienne says adamantly, flushing. While her ethical standards have broadened and become less rigid since medical school, the Oldtown medical board’s have not. 

He’s still watching her, more intently than she’s comfortable with. “No, the good Doctor Tarth follows the rules. She couldn’t possibly give me a hint.”

Brienne sees amusement in his gaze, but also curiosity, tinged with desperation. He’s tried so many things. If he hadn’t seen the oldest neurologist in Pentos, the most entrenched in his ways, Jaime might have heard about marijuana as a pain reliever much earlier. She quickly taps her thumb and forefinger to her lips, blows out warm air that steams in the cool morning.

His grin broadens as he catches her meaning. "I’ll have to add that to my list of things to try, when I’m done here." He sobers. “Sorry, Doc. I just… I’ve gotta have a plan. Maybe I’ll head to Braavos next.” 

“Give me some time. I wouldn’t keep you here if I thought I couldn’t help you,” she says firmly. Brienne has turned away patients, those she had nothing new to offer and those who would not listen. Jaime is not like that. She’s not done with him yet.

Jaime nods. “I know.” 

They fall silent, the quiet stretching out long enough that Brienne is hesitant to break it. But this is the one thing she does for herself, starting her day out here alone on the beach. She decides to be blunt with him. "Look, I’m sure Sam has discussed meditation with you. Well, this is mine." 

"You want to be alone," Jaime prompts. 

"Yes." Relief floods through her that he understands.

"Just for today, maybe we could be alone together?" The look on his face is so unguarded and earnest that she can't deny him. 

Brienne nods, expecting him to keep talking. But he simply sits and watches with her, silent, as the sun spills over the horizon. 

 

* * *

** VIII. Jaime **

He doesn’t want to be here. After three weeks breathing the clean salt air of Tarth, King’s Landing reeks of trash and too many people. Photographers dog Jaime's every step. He wears an oversized hoodie and leaves his building through the service entrance as often as he can, but reporters shadow him every time he leaves the courthouse. 

_ "Why didn’t she just leave him?"  _

_ "How did she meet Osmund Kettleblack?” _

_ "Has she killed before?" _

Cersei hired a hit man to kill her husband, that much he’s sure of. Kettleblack had no reason to do it otherwise, and Cersei would never get her hands dirty. Except there was an accident with a girl once, when they were kids. But there's no point in digging that up now. 

Jaime's not here to help his sister. The writing is on the wall, her conviction a certainty. The absence of other Lannisters in the packed courtroom told him that the first day he came back. She left an evidence trail a mile wide. Cersei never was any good at covering her tracks. Jaime is lucky that the police don’t seem to care about her infidelities nearly as much as he once did, or he might have been dragged into this circus too. Their affair, such as it was, ended more than a decade ago, after their carelessness required a discreet abortion. 

Cersei saw him in the courtroom, wearing a suit without a tie, his most realistic prosthesis, and a neatly-trimmed beard. The shirt took him 15 minutes to button. She didn’t even smile.

Jaime is only here at Sam's recommendation. His father and Tyrion are gone, but he might get some closure with his sister. Sam knows about them. Jaime haltingly confessed the incest after Sam asked about her. Sam is surprisingly easy to talk to, or perhaps Jaime is just ready to talk.

Cersei's attorney promised to relay Jaime's request to see her, but Cersei seems content to leave him twisting in the wind, waiting patiently for her summons. That, at least, is familiar. 

Jaime sits in the courtroom each day, the testimony washing over him, chipping away at his image of Cersei bit by bit. The Maiden become the Stranger. When he’s not in court, Jaime runs. Mornings, evenings, sometimes late at night. Once a cop stops him, thinking he’s running away from something. Jaime almost laughs. How do you run away from something that’s not even there?

Ten days after Jaime leaves Evenfall, he is still waiting for Cersei to grant him a few minutes of her time. He is surprised when Dr. Tarth calls to check in after he cancels their next appointment.  


“How are you doing?” she asks, warm but professional. Her voice instantly brings back the calm he felt watching the sunrise on that beach.

“Better,” Jaime admits, surprised how rough his voice sounds. He hasn’t had much reason to speak since he’s been home. He coughs a little, clears his throat. “Sleeping more. The pain has been starting later in the day.” Jaime is still keenly aware of his hand within a minute of waking, but the muscle spasms and pain don't start until he reaches the courtroom.

Jaime imagines her jotting down notes as they talk. Brienne must be in her office, but Jaime pictures her sitting on the beach anyway. 

“Can you rate your pain for me?” 

Jaime reluctantly agreed to use the painkillers when the pain reaches a 7 out of 10. He also has Xanax for panic attacks, to go with the Cymbalta, which hasn’t fully kicked in yet. Sam is still adjusting his dosages and Brienne has already changed his painkiller twice. 

“Right now? Three,” Jaime admits. He bites his lip and adds, “Depends on the day.”

Now he does hear papers rustling, and realizes that she’s put him on speaker phone. The doc's voice is slightly muffled when she asks, “Have you spoken to Sam lately?”

“I haven't been able to connect with him yet,” Jaime hedges. Sam encouraged him to go home, but this trip has dragged on longer than expected. He knows Sam would suggest he cut his losses and return to Evenfall.

“That would be hard to do from the courtroom at Baelor’s.”

“How did you…” Jaime sputters. He told her when he left that he needed to handle some family business back home, but provided no details.  


Brienne laughs, and he can’t bring himself to be annoyed even though it’s at his expense. “I do read the papers. The trial is a big news story. Your presence was noticed.” 

“I’ll call. I promise,” he says, and means it. 

 

* * *

 

** IX. Brienne **

“Just call the office when you get there and give Podrick the information for your pharmacy, and we’ll see you at the winter break.” Brienne tries in vain to sound reassuring rather than worried. 

Jeyne rolls her eyes a bit and waves as her mother ushers her out the door. The girl is headed to college in Gulltown next week, and Brienne can’t help but worry. 

Jeyne has epilepsy, well controlled by medication, but her mother has largely taken charge of that. At school, not only will Jeyne have to remember to take her pills, three times a day at the same times each day, but she will be facing more temptation. Her medication can seriously reduce alcohol tolerance and makes birth control pills less effective as well. Brienne doesn’t want to think what might happen to Jeyne if she doesn’t realize how much grain alcohol is in the punch at parties. 

Brienne has done what she can, having a frank talk with Jeyne during her physical exam today, while her mother was waiting in Brienne’s office. The poor girl seemed mortified and did nothing but nod or shake her head at appropriate times.

Brienne glances at the clock as she sits back down at her desk. It’s almost time for Jaime Lannister’s call. With his sister’s trial concluded, he will return to Evenfall in a few days. Brienne wasn’t convinced of the need for Jaime’s trip, in fact thought the trial might agitate him further, but she deferred to Sam’s judgement. 

While Brienne waits for the phone to ring, she works on her grant request. There are prosthetists in Astapor, wizards with wiring and plastics, who have prototyped a new prosthetic hand that allows the wearer to experience tactile sensation. Early experiments show great promise, and Brienne would love to have the opportunity to test one here at Evenfall. She has several patients who would make excellent subjects, although most would balk at moving to Evenfall for the months the experiment would take. 

The phone rings, and Brienne picks up the receiver. “Dr. Tarth.” 

“Sorry, ser, Dr. Tarth, I forgot to tell you,” her office manager stammers. Podrick spent four years in the Warrior’s Sons and habitually addresses her as _ser_. Brienne is used to it. “Your four o’clock phone appointment canceled. Something about conflicting appointments, Mr. Lannister said. He rescheduled for tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Pod. That’s all for today then. You can head home early if you’d like.” Brienne is annoyed that Pod didn’t tell her earlier, but she tries to keep it out of her voice. She hoped to hear that Jaime is making progress so they can start the next phase of his treatment when he returns. 

Brienne is aware that she’s taken too great an interest in this case, in this patient. She’s always had a weakness for beautiful men, but it’s Jaime’s disarming, blunt honesty that keeps drawing her in. It’s rare for Brienne to meet someone who looks right into her eyes, neither staring at her scar nor deliberately avoiding it. 

These check-in phone calls are unnecessary, but Brienne enjoyed talking to Jaime the few times they ran into each other at the beach. He’s tactless and arrogant, yet they have far more in common than she would have suspected. As long as it goes no further than talk, she doesn’t see any harm in it. 

She’s still working on her grant request an hour later when her cell phone rings. The caller ID shows an unfamiliar King’s Landing number. A telemarketer, no doubt, eager to tell her how she can save money on her car insurance or frolic on the beaches of the Summer Isles at her new timeshare. Never mind that the beach is right outside her door, and Dr. Brienne Tarth does not frolic. 

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested,” she says flatly. 

There’s silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment Brienne thinks the telemarketer will hang up without speaking. “All I’ve got to offer are a few slightly tarnished medals and a one-handed guy calling a little late to talk to his doc. Interested?” 

She smiles, wishes she was as quick with words as Jaime is. He sounds different, lighter. “How did you get my personal number?” 

“I know people. One of them owed me a favor,” he answers, not really an answer. “I thought you’d be home by now.” 

“And I thought we had an appointment tomorrow,” she reminds him, but she pulls his file out from under her research materials and flips it open. She’ll have to change her number. It’s one thing for her to call him from the office, another for him to start calling her personal cell phone, when he expects her to be at home.

“I can call back then. I wouldn’t want to keep you from anyone,” he says, and it’s as close to an apology as she’s likely to get from him. An acknowledgement that he shouldn’t have called at all is beyond him.

Brienne sighs, trying to separate her professional curiosity about his progress from her certainty that he is fishing for information about her personal life. “No, it’s fine. I’m still in the office. We can talk.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**X. Jaime**

He hates examination rooms, hates the crinkly paper under his ass and how the exam table is always at an awkward height. The lights are always a little too bright, the air a little too cold. Even though she didn’t ask him to undress, Jaime feels exposed.

Brienne wraps the blood pressure cuff around his left arm. Most doctors have nurses take their patient’s vital signs. Jaime likes that she does it all herself.

His blood pressure often spikes under stress, and it’s worse when he’s in pain. Just knowing he was coming in today, Jaime woke with his arm already aching.

She is quiet this morning, which makes it worse. He feels pinned, studied. Jaime is intimately familiar with this feeling, and he loathes it. He ignores the lab coat, the stethoscope around her neck, reminds himself she is also the woman on the beach in compression running pants and neon blue sneakers.

These are not appropriate thoughts. Jaime knows that. Sam was very clear in their session yesterday that Brienne—Dr. Tarth—cannot be anything more than Jaime’s doctor. And a treatment that relieves his pain is worth far more than a few weeks of longing looks, furtive kisses, and scorching hot sex. Jaime knows his pattern, a holdover from the years of Cersei running hot and cold with him, repeated with the few women he found intriguing enough to pursue.

Cersei finally agreed to see him again, briefly, while the jury deliberated. She was terrified, any fool could see that, and she still blamed everyone but herself for her actions. Jaime shouldn’t have abandoned her in her time of need, should have answered her call for help. He didn’t bother reminding her that she ignored him after his accident, that there was nothing he could do for her by the time she reached out to him. The girl Jaime loved so much was gone, and he didn’t know the woman she had become. That woman scared him.

"How did you find me?" Brienne asks, breaking his reverie.

Jaime shakes off the last glimpse he had of Cersei, handcuffed and being led away to spend the rest of her life in a cell in the Reach.

“Internet support group.”

Brienne looks up from his arm. “Which one? If you don’t mind me asking?”  

 _I don’t remember._ The lie is on the tip of his tongue, but those damned blue eyes are making it tough to get the words out.  “It’s mostly ex-military guys. A couple of them recommended Evenfall. And you.”

She blushes, perhaps embarrassed by the praise, then the professional facade slides back into place. “I’ve seen quite a few Warrior’s Sons. Podrick served.” She pauses. “It’s good to have people you can talk to who understand.”

Jaime shakes his head. “I’m just some idiot who got run over by a sled. Kinda stupid when you compare it to hitting a roadside bomb in the Red Waste.”

Brienne removes the blood pressure cuff, notes the result in his chart. Her handwriting is careful and neat, unlike most doctors. “I treated idiots during med school and my internship. You’re not an idiot.”

“What kind of idiots?” He heard a few stories when he was still in the hospital and from his physical therapists, but there’s something morbidly fascinating about hearing how other people ended up like him. That thought makes his forearm twitch.

She chews her bottom lip. She must do it often; the skin is thin and red there. “I shouldn’t talk about this, Mr. Lannister.”

“Jaime, please." He hates being called Mr. Lannister. It’s impersonal, and it makes Jaime feel like a pale imitation of his father. With Brienne, he knows it's a barrier she puts up to maintain professional distance. Fuck that. He is not a faceless collection of broken parts, a case number and a diagnosis, treatment protocol and result. He’s still a goddamn person and he wants to be treated like one. He needs that.

“ _Jaime_ , I can’t discuss other patients with you.”

He grins, relishing the small victory. “Come on, I’m not asking for names.”

Brienne grasps his left wrist, stares at her watch while she takes his pulse. Her hands are large but soft, her touch far gentler than he expected. He likes the contrast of that.  

“Nail guns,” she says quietly. “Fireworks, chainsaws, table saws, and once liquid nitrogen.”

“Liquid nitrogen?”

She nods. “That one was a mistake in a restaurant. The guy told his boss he knew how to handle it. He didn’t. His finger shattered like glass when he bumped it against the counter.” Brienne raises one eyebrow. “Still think an Olympic training accident sounds stupid?”

Jaime thinks a moment. Perhaps not stupid. Pointless, definitely. “Are people really dumb in Highgarden?”

Brienne shrugs. “It’s a college town. Plenty of drunk kids. And accidents happen everywhere.”

Jaime watches as she tests his reflexes. “How did you get into this?” he asks, wondering why it didn’t occur to him to ask sooner. This topic, at least, is safe. Personal, but relevant to her work.

She grasps his knee, holds it down. "Push against my hand."

He obeys, noting the strength she shows in restraining him and the slight color in her cheeks. She doesn’t wear any makeup, not even to reduce the visibility of her scar.

“What do you mean?” She switches to his other knee.

Jaime pushes up against her hand again. “Studying people’s brains.”

She smiles, a secret little smile. “Why not? The brain is amazing.” Her voice is soft, reverent.

Jaime's brain has never been much use to him. His body was a finely tuned machine, his mind only good for controlling it. These days it can't even manage that. “It’s mostly making my life hell, Doc. I don’t see much amazing about it.”

“But it _is_ amazing. Think about it. Your brain remembers so well what it was like to have both hands that it can replicate all those feelings as if it were still there.”

Sudden pressure on his right arm makes Jaime flinch. Her hand is resting on his stump. “I know the reality of it is hell for you, but the fact that your brain is capable of any of this is a miracle.”

Jaime takes a deep breath, remembers the day he forgot about his hand for three whole hours. “It’s not always hell.”

“Good. Let’s go in my office and we can talk a bit more about next steps.”

 

* * *

 

**XI. Brienne**

“I thought you might need to talk,” Sam says when he answers the door.

“Am I in trouble?” she asks as lightly as she can, but Sam is clearly concerned.

“You tell me,” he answers, ever the therapist. It would be annoying if she didn’t really need to talk, and well, Sam’s her only option.

Sam grabs two beers from his fridge and they sit on his balcony rather than in his office. Brienne is grateful for the sunshine, alcohol, and view of the boats bobbing in the harbor. It makes this conversation feel less like a therapy session.

He waits patiently, kicking off his clogs and basking in the sun. Sam met a girl working at the Crocs kiosk by the pier a few months ago and has been walking on air in hideous shoes ever since. “So…” he finally prompts.

Brienne takes a long swallow of her beer. “Jaime Lannister.”

Sam nods slowly. “I think I’ve got his meds sorted out, and he’s sleeping more. He’s probably ready for the next phase of treatment, but I don't think that’s why you came.”

“Am I that transparent?” she asks, embarrassed.

Sam shrugs. “He’s a good-looking man and a fascinating case. I’d be more worried if he _didn’t_ interest you." He casts her a thoughtful look. “You’re not sleeping with him, are you?”

“No, gods, of course not,” Brienne splutters. “What gave you that idea?”

Sam thinks a moment, and she is reminded that they’re walking a very fine line with patient confidentiality here. “Jaime told me he called you, and talked with you on the beach several times.”

She groans. “I don’t know how he got my cell number. Or why. " She’s seen his files. He needs _someone_ , a friend, and it really shouldn’t be his doctor. "I'd refer him to someone else, but ..."

"He needs someone he trusts, and he clearly trusts you," Sam finishes with a nod. “But you know why he called you. You opened that door by calling him first. You need to be careful not to encourage anything further."

She colors. That ship has sailed. Brienne didn't mean anything by it, got swept up in the opportunity to test a neurological theory.

"We were talking about the brain and I bet him I could touch his right hand," Brienne admits. As she explained it to Jaime, the theory is that the brain rewires nerve pathways to new locations. In some cases, touching a spot on the patient's face produces the sensation of touching the missing limb.

Jaime was skeptical, but he sat patiently with his eyes closed for several minutes while she tested his responses to her touch. Brienne worked systematically, starting at one temple, gently stroking Jaime’s skin, watching his face for a reaction. Jaime, either nervous or bored, kept drumming his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

She worked her way across his forehead and down both cheeks without success before she realized that the short beard he wore might pose a slight problem to completing her task. She paused, considering, and ran one finger lightly along his jaw. Jaime hummed in appreciation and drawled, “You know, you didn’t need to make an excuse to get your hands on me.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, noticing her blush. “Unless touching his hand is a euphemism for something else, I don’t see the problem.”

Sam didn’t see the look in Jaime’s eyes when he opened them, mischief and arrogance and behind it all a vulnerability she recognized deep down, the need for someone to like you, to care.

“Cortical reorganization. Nerve stimulus interpreted by the brain as coming from the missing limb. It’s often focused in a spot on the patient’s face,” Brienne explains.

Sam nods. “Ah, so our patient who is already ignoring professional boundaries with you reads something sexual into you touching his face.”

Brienne nods. “He made a joke of it, but yes.”

She ignored Jaime, resumed her exploration as if there was nothing questionable about how close she was standing or how she was touching him, doing her damnedest not to touch his smirking mouth as she moved from the left side of his face to the right.

“Did your test work?” Sam asks skeptically.

“Yes.”

She was nearly done, fingertips drawn lightly over a point near the corner of Jaime’s mouth, when his eyes widened in shock, “Fuck,” rushing from his mouth on an exhale.

Brienne lifted her fingers away immediately. “What did you feel?”

Jaime swallowed hard, and he stared down at his shortened arm, impatiently stripping off the sock like he expected to find a hand hiding in there. “Do it again.”

Reluctantly, Brienne repeated the motion, this time watching his arm. Jaime’s whole body sagged for a moment, tension dropping away, and he laughed. “Will it work if I do it?” Awkwardly he pushed her hand out of the way and touched his own face with his left hand, scowled. “Damn, it doesn’t.”

Brienne grabbed her notebook, noted the spot and his initial reactions. “What happened? What did you feel?”

He shook his head, tearing his gaze from his arm to look up at her. “My palm. You know, if I had one. It felt like you touched my palm.”

She jotted that down. “And did it hurt?” Sometimes the sensations produced were unpleasant. Given how much pain he’d been in, it wouldn’t surprise her if the sensations were sharp or cold or even a shock.

“No.” Jaime bit his lip, brow furrowed in concentration. “My hand was fisted, really hard, and then you stroked my palm and it relaxed.” He growled a little. “It still aches, and it's already tensing up again, but no, your touch didn’t hurt, Doc.”

Sam is looking at her funny.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Brienne asks, sipping her beer.

He heaves a sigh. “I was saying that Jaime’s been alone for quite some time. He had a few brief relationships before his accident, but none since. He craves connection. I don’t think he knows any way to find that except through sex.”

“And here I thought only silly teenage girls thought sex equals love,” Brienne says with a snort. Jaime competed in three Olympic Games. She’s heard the stories, like everyone has, about the debauchery that goes on there. A man as good-looking as Jaime couldn’t have lacked for willing partners, but she knows very well that sex and intimacy don't necessarily go together.

Sam’s office phone rings in the room behind them, and he gets up to answer it.

Brienne stretches out in her chair, points her toes and flexes her calves. She could use a run. After all this, it will clear her mind, help her sleep. She sets down her beer on a side table. Any lingering effects from the little bit she drank will wear off by the time she walks back to her office.

She watches a couple of kids working to help a windsurfer who fell over, until Sam comes back and sits beside her.

“So, to recap,” he says briskly. “He’s probably going to keep coming on to you. I’ve already warned him to knock it off, and he seems to be ignoring my advice. The trick will be to stop him from thinking you’re rejecting him because of his amputation.”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Of course that’s not the reason. Why would that bother me?”

“People are very shallow. Most claim they’re not, but really, they are. If I had a silver stag for every woman who swore she wasn’t turning me down because I’m fat.” He pauses, takes a drink. “Well, I’d have a much nicer apartment.”

She is well aware of how shallow people are, how picky about who they consider a viable partner. She also knows they are less picky about one-night stands. So is she, although she has not yet been so desperate as to take advantage of Hyle’s standing offer. He is witty and sleazy and fits every stereotype about surgeons. He once told her that he loves Spring Break because “for college girls, _surgeon_ is a panty-dropper.” The only positive about Hyle is that he’s used to her face and doesn’t ask about it. New men always do.

“Assuming treatment works, I think he’ll be done in a session or two. Then he can go home,” Brienne muses. “I’d like him to follow up in a few months, just for my records, unless he starts having trouble again. Would that be okay?”

Sam nods. “As long as he finds a psychiatrist to continue his treatment at home, that works for me.”

Brienne levers herself up out of the chair, her back popping as she stretches. “Thanks for seeing me. This helped. Transference isn’t something I’ve run into before.” It’s not uncommon for patients to mistake a warm bedside manner for affection, gratitude for attraction. It’s just never happened to her.

Sam follows her to the front door, clears his throat as she’s opening it. “Look, I’ve known you for a long time, before you got hurt, so please don’t take this the wrong way.”

Already that has Brienne’s hackles up. She doesn’t need anyone to stroke her ego and remind her she’s a good doctor, or tell her that someday a man will look past her face and her body to the person inside. It’s always well-meaning, and it’s always crap. Her face and her body are just as much a part of her as her mind.

Sam backs up a step, perhaps sensing she’s not receptive to this. “Don’t try to do Jaime a favor by telling him about transference. I’m not convinced that’s all this is for him, and it’ll be harder for Jaime next time if he thinks he can’t trust his own feelings.”

Not all transference? That’s ridiculous. “Sam, I’m not his type. Trust me. But I won’t say anything.”

Sam laughs. “Brienne, you’re exactly his type. Blonde, reserved, unavailable.”

Brienne is momentarily speechless, but then she processes what he’s said. Of course. A man who must get offers all the time would be more interested in the chase, in women who didn’t fall at his feet. And Brienne is safe. Jaime must know she would never get involved with a patient.

“I’ll be careful,” Brienne promises.

Sam’s expression is soft. “I know you will. You always are.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

** XII. Jaime **

“Close your eyes.”

Jaime sighs heavily, eyeing the room, trying to decide if Brienne's going to drug him or shock him when his eyes are closed or something else equally sinister. But the office is still bright and non-threatening and she’s still just as earnest, though Brienne’s blue eyes hold a secret that he can’t quite puzzle out yet. 

He wouldn’t do this for anyone else, walking into this office without any idea what she has planned, closing his eyes and leaving himself at her mercy.

He’s sitting in a chair pulled up to the desk, his forearms resting on the cool wood. They just finished his physical exam, and he’s nervous as hell. His arm aches, his phantom hand has been clenched all day, and he really wants something to take the edge off. 

Jaime almost asked her to stroke his face again, just for a minute, back in the exam room. Last time it took almost an hour before the pain built up again, but there’s something in her manner today that tells him it’s not a good idea. Besides, last time she was close enough that he could feel her thigh pressed against his knee, see her teeth digging into her lush bottom lip as she concentrated on stroking his face. Jaime could hardly be blamed for getting a little turned on.

Explaining to Sam Tarly exactly how Jaime knew his new med cocktail wasn’t causing impotence was slightly embarrassing, though. Jaime tries not to think of her like that, knows she would be mortified if she knew, but lately nothing finishes him off faster than imagining Brienne peeling off that form-fitting running gear. The shrink didn’t seem surprised, just reminded him again that Brienne is his doctor, as if Jaime could forget that. How much she cares about her patients is one of the things he likes about her. Which is weird, since he’s one of them. On an intellectual level, he gets that. On a gut level, though, he hasn’t been this drawn to someone since before his accident. 

But sex is the last thing on his mind right now. With his eyes closed, he can hear rustling around him, smell an occasional whiff of her citrusy shampoo. She touches his arms, moving both to rest exactly where she wants them on the desk, but Jaime can’t really focus on her touch. The pain is dominant. It has weight, pressing down on his arm, pulsing with his heartbeat and radiating up to his shoulder. Sharp nails dig into his flesh, muscles and tendons aching, spasms gripping his arm every few minutes. 

Today is a bad day. Both doctors asked him to avoid taking any Vicodin or Xanax, and he misses both right now. Jaime hates being so wound up, hates not knowing what is about to happen. What if he walks out of here with nothing but another failure added to his file?

“Jaime.” Brienne’s voice is unexpectedly close, calm and assured. It cuts through the pain, soothes his racing heart. “Open your eyes.”

Jaime does, blinking against the light, and he is stunned. He has two hands.

Then that one blissful moment passes. Jaime sees and understands. He has never been so disappointed in his entire life. Losing the gold medal is nothing compared to this. 

Jaime's right forearm is in a box, with a mirror on its left side. And that mirror reflects his left arm, resting on the table.

“Nice try, Doc,” he says with a forced laugh. Weeks on this island, weeks of baring his soul to yet another shrink, and all she has for him is a mirror on a box. Jaime has every intention of going back to his hotel and getting blind drunk. 

“Trust me,” Brienne says. “Now make a fist.”

Jaime grumbles under his breath, but he complies. Finally his right hand looks like it feels, even if it’s only an illusion. “It’s a good party trick,” he concedes. 

“Hush, we’re not done,” she scolds.

“Doc,” Jaime protests. This is silly. He is not a child fooled by funhouse mirrors. There are only two reasons he’s not walking out right now: the soldiers who recommended Brienne, and his certainty that she will be upset if he doesn’t at least let her try.

“Mr. Lannister,” she responds pointedly. “Do you trust me?”

Jaime looks away from the mirror, his arm reflected there, and looks back at her over his shoulder. Brienne is honestly excited about this, color in her freckled cheek and blue eyes so bright.  


He can swallow one more failure, he can try this if she really believes in it. And there is no guile in her face. She’s not scamming him; Brienne genuinely thinks this magic trick will work. 

Jaime turns back to the desk, feels that brief jolt again when he sees a hand at the end of his right arm. “I trust you.” He needs the reminder perhaps as much as she needs the affirmation.

Jaime can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Then open your hands.”

He does, and nothing happens. He growls his frustration. He  _ sees  _ an open hand, but he  _ feels  _ a clenched fist.

Brienne steps around to his side. “Take a deep breath, try again.” He can see her out of the corner of his eye, a solid presence in a white lab coat. She rests her hand on his right arm, long fingers wrapped gently around his elbow. “Watch the mirror this time.”

Jaime makes a fist, and lets the blunt tips of his fingernails dig into his palm. The phantom hand has no muscles to tire, no limit to how tight and painful it can become. He deliberately clenches harder, trying to match the tension in his other arm. His eyes are on the mirror, watching his fist shake slightly, knuckles turning white. 

“Open your hands,” she repeats, this time a command.

But he’s not quite ready to try ( _and fail_ ) again. Jaime holds tight, until the pain in both hands is nearly identical, his right arm trembling under her fingers. 

Brienne leans down, her other hand gripping the back of his chair. “Jaime, let go,” she says, soft and insistent in his ear. 

And he does.

 

* * *

** XIII. Brienne **

She can tell that it works instantly, as his muscles relax under her hand. 

Jaime Lannister laughs, wiggling the fingers of his left hand and spreading his fingers wide, stretching his palm. There are thin, crescent gouges in his palm and wet blood under his short fingernails. But still he laughs. 

And Brienne smiles, for once not bothering to hide her large teeth and wide mouth. No one is looking at her right now, and all she sees is her patient, basking in the sudden absence of pain. This is the moment that makes the long hours in her office worthwhile, and she loves watching it every time.  

He turns his head and directs his smile up at Brienne. How long has it been since Jaime has smiled so genuinely? Years, she thinks, and she is nearly as happy as he is. 

“Why doesn’t everyone try this?” Jaime asks, almost giddy. 

Brienne removes her hand from his arm and leans against the desk. She draws her white coat tightly around her body. “It doesn’t work for everyone.” 

She has vivid memories of the last amputee she failed. He tried, wanted it to work so much, but it didn't. He threw the box against the wall. They tried other treatments: hypnosis, cognitive-behavioral therapy, nerve stimulation, drugs. One day he failed to show up for his appointment, and he never came back. Brienne searches his name on the Internet every now and then, hoping she won’t find an obituary.

“It’s also cheap and unsexy. It’s not a fancy machine or a cutting-edge drug,” she adds. Yet this simple tool saves lives in Slaver’s Bay, where the poor still lose hands as a penalty for stealing food. 

"Feels pretty damn sexy to me,” he laughs.

Brienne looks swiftly away, hoping he doesn’t see her flushed face. Transference, she reminds herself. Besides, the treatment isn't done yet. 

This therapy must pass one last test, and it’s the one Brienne is most nervous about. She schools her features so as not to betray this. “Now take your arm out of the box.”

Jaime hesitates. All his good humor vanishes. 

Brienne gives him a minute, but he isn’t moving. He’s watching the mirror intently. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jaime,” is all she needs to say. 

"I know," he mutters, wiggling his fingers again. 

"You can close your eyes if you need to," she suggests, and his eyes slip closed immediately. 

Slowly, Jaime pulls his forearm out of the box, rests it in his lap. He is breathing in the slow, deliberate way that Sam teaches. 

Brienne pushes the box away, so the mirror won’t be the first thing he sees, and walks around the desk to sit in her chair. 

Jaime’s watching her when she looks back up at him. There’s a small, dopey grin on his face, along with a hint of apprehension in his eyes. The box tricks his brain, but it won’t last forever. This isn’t a quick fix, and she can tell that he knows that without being told. 

“You’ll do this twice a day, every day. More often if you need to, but at least that often. There are exercises too, to prolong the effect,” she directs, avoiding his eyes by gathering up handouts that detail each exercise, patterns of movement to further convince his brain that his right hand is intact. “If it doesn’t work the first time, keep trying for fifteen minutes.” She glances back up. “It won’t always work.”

His grin falls away at that. “Why not?”

“We’re not sure. It doesn’t work for some people at all. There’s a lot we just don’t understand. But you’ve had a promising start. Let’s not start looking for things to go wrong, okay?”

Jaime nods. “Yeah, I guess so.” He scratches idly at his right arm, glancing down at it and frowning slightly. 

“Do you have a psychiatrist in King’s Landing?” She adds a few notes to the handouts and looks up when he still hasn’t answered.

He’s staring down at his hand, which is cradling his neatly stitched wrist. 

“Jaime?”

“Hmm?” He looks up, sheepish. “Sorry. Sam recommended someone. I have an appointment in two weeks.”

Brienne gives him what she hopes is an encouraging smile. “Good. Take care of yourself, keep up your treatments, and we’ll see you back here in three or four months.” 

His brow furrows. “Are we done, then?”

She’s ending this appointment, and his treatment, abruptly, she sees that. Normally Brienne would sit down with the patient, explain the theory and the research behind mirror therapy. But she already knows that Jaime will go back to his hotel room and read through all of the available research. They could do one more session, walk through all of the exercises, but it’s probably best to limit their time together. 

“This was our goal, Jaime. You came here for pain reduction, remember?” She's reminding herself as much as him. 

He nods slowly. “Right.”

Brienne gets up from her desk, retrieves a tote bag from her credenza. She hates that it has the practice’s logo on it, but Hyle insisted when he had them printed up. Advertising seems crass for a medical practice. The mirror box fits perfectly inside the bag, though, so she wraps it up with his handouts and sets the bag on the desk in front of Jaime.

He still looks a bit disoriented, until she takes a step toward the door. Then he finally seems to realize the appointment is over, and stands. He takes the tote bag, slinging it over his right shoulder.

“Goodbye, Jaime.” She holds out her left hand, and he eyes it with an amused smirk. 

Jaime takes her hand, shakes it, but doesn’t let go. He steps up to her, wraps his shortened arm around her shoulders, his chest pressed briefly against hers. And then he’s gone, striding across the office to the door. 

He hesitates on the threshold, turns back. “I’m not imagining this, right? There’s something here.” He gestures between the two of them with his right arm.  

Of course, there’s  _ something  _ going on. A totally inappropriate flirtation that could ruin Brienne’s professional reputation if she lets it get out of hand. Which she won’t, if she can just get him to stop standing there staring at her and go back to King’s Landing. “Jaime, I’m your doctor. That trumps everything else.” 

That was meant to close the door on this topic, but a lazy grin spreads across his face. “I knew it.” He winks, and finally walks out the door, calling behind him, “See you in three months, Doc.” 

 


	6. Chapter 6

** XIV. Jaime **

He glances discreetly at his phone. Fifteen minutes left. Mark just finished griping about his boss. Next up is Alla. She seems unable to make a decision about anything without running it past the group. With any luck, she’ll prattle on long enough that Jaime won’t have to speak today. 

He shivers, gathers his jacket tighter around his body. Septon Meribald always keeps the meeting room too cold. Cheap, pious bastard. 

Jaime has been coming to this group for two months, since he returned from Essos. He spent the first three days in Meereen letting Tyrion berate him for a lot of things he didn’t remember saying or doing, and the rest of the trip touring the city and visiting pain relief specialists. Tyrion thought that was hilarious, how Jaime couldn't seem to travel anywhere without seeing a doctor or two. But Tyrion was happy enough to sample the wares on offer. They ended each day sitting on his balcony, smoking and trading stories from the past two years. Tyrion asked why Jaime was even bothering to go home. Jaime didn’t have an answer that made sense to anyone but him.

Jaime sent a postcard to Brienne with the name of a researcher whose experiments might prove useful to her, should Westerosi laws ever change. It was presumptuous, but he couldn’t help it. His new shrink, Dr. Sand, said that his interest in Brienne was a healthy sign, just misdirected. Dr. Sand strongly suggested that Jaime join Meribald’s support group, find a running club, try to meet people. Sometimes, if not for her dark skin and lilting Dornish accent he might have mistaken her for his meddling Aunt Genna. 

“I had a date Saturday night,” Alla says with a nervous laugh. 

“Have you dated much since your accident?” Meribald asks.

Alla shakes her head vigorously. “No, it’s too weird.”

Meribald clicks his pen, looking around the circle thoughtfully. “How many of you have been on a date since your amputation?” 

About half of the hands go up. Jaime’s does not. 

“Why is it weird?” Meribald asks Alla. There are a lot of nervous laughs around the circle.

She hesitates. This is strange. Alla usually has to be reminded to stop talking so others can speak. “Well, this time of year, my prosthesis isn’t obvious, so I’m never sure if they know, and then it’s awkward bringing it up. I never know if I should do it before agreeing to a date, or on the date, or wait until he asks me out again.”

Several of the others are nodding in agreement with her. This is not a problem Jaime has considered much. His lack of hand is obvious if anyone looks at his prosthesis for more than a few seconds, and he doesn’t always wear one. Alla depends on her prosthesis for her mobility. Jaime regards his as tools, to be used as needed, but not part of him.

“You feel compelled to tell men you date about your amputation?” Meribald prompts.

Alla picks at a loose thread in her sweater. “Well, yeah. I just keep thinking, what if he wants to see me naked? What kind of strip tease starts with taking off my leg?” She laughs again, high and a little hysterical, and wipes a tear from her eye.

“Can anyone offer Alla some advice about this?” Meribald asks. His calm gaze sweeps over the group, sitting in a loose circle in mismatched chairs. He often cheats and asks the other group members to chime in. “Mark? Donal? Jaime?” 

“My girl always knew about my arm. She’s proud of me,” Mark says with a grin. “I know I’m lucky.”

“I was already married,” Donal says with a shrug. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t raise my hand,” Jaime points out, uncomfortably aware that the group’s attention has shifted to him.

Meribald fixes him with a meaningful look.

Oh hells. Fine. Maybe Alla needs to hear the obvious from someone who isn't sworn to celibacy. "He asked you out?" Jaime asks.

Alla nods. 

"You’re beautiful. You know this. And he’s a guy. He’s been picturing you naked since before he spoke to you. If the reality bothers him, he’s not worth your time. You are more than your leg,” Jaime says bluntly. 

Alla’s expression shifts from pleasure at his compliment, to irritation at his assertion. She really is a lovely girl, dark hair and a lush figure. When her boyfriend drove his car into a tree, she was in the passenger seat. He dumped her before she left the hospital. She wraps her arms around herself protectively. "Like you’re more than your hand? I don’t see you putting yourself out there.”

"Everyone heals at their own pace, Alla. His journey is not your journey," Meribald admonishes. 

“No, his journey is on two feet,” she says sharply. 

For once, Jaime keeps his mouth shut. Alla doesn’t want to hear that he tried, that the Seven seem intent on kicking him while he’s down.

Alla is still shooting Jaime dirty looks as Donal tries to defuse the tension with a story about his misadventures in one-armed parenting. Jaime is glad he will miss next week’s meeting. 

 

* * *

** XV.  Brienne **

Hyle tosses another file onto their growing “no” pile. The whole stack slides toward an open takeout carton of spicy noodles.

This working lunch in their office kitchen was her idea, but Brienne is questioning her judgement now. She reaches out and straightens the pile. “All we need are five maybes,” she reminds him. “Invite them here, run a few tests.” Without five potential candidates, the prosthetic firm in Astapor won’t accept Tarth and Hunt in its beta test program.

Hyle slurps noodles out of another carton. “You think any of these guys will do it?” he asks, his mouth full.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Putting electrodes in their brain might be a tough sell.”  

“Pussies,” Hyle sneers, carefully delivering more noodles to his mouth with a pair of chopsticks. He’s crude, but he’s good with his hands. Brienne has watched him operate many times. She doesn’t compliment him anymore, though. The last time she did, Hyle told her in graphic detail just how good he could be to her with those hands. 

It used to bother her, the way he talks, but after about a year Brienne figured out most of it was just talk. She can tell when Hyle actually gets laid, and it’s not that often. He brings donuts to the office. He sings under his breath while he reviews charts. His good mood lasts around a week, sometimes longer. He’s a skilled surgeon and a decent business partner. So what if he occasionally borrows her dog so women will talk to him in the park?

Gesturing with his chopsticks, Hyle points at the thick file resting beside her empty mug. “You holding out on me?” 

She doesn’t need to look to know which file it is. “No, that’s just my next patient. He’s not a candidate.” 

Hyle grunts an acknowledgement and grabs another file to review. They cast a wide net, inquiring with neurologists from White Harbor to Sunspear in search of beta test candidates. No amputation complications, no phantom sensations, no lingering pain. That limits the candidate pool significantly.

A chime interrupts her thoughts. Brienne scoops up her phone, silences it. Ten minutes to her next appointment. Normally this is when she would scan the file, refresh her memory about her patient. This time she doesn’t need to. The file she dismissed is Jaime Lannister’s. 

Her appetite vanishes. She takes Jaime’s file, leaves behind her noodles knowing that Hyle will eat them without hesitation, and retreats to her office to get her bearings. For the last two weeks, she’s been wrapped up in finding patients to test Master Tech’s brain-controlled robotic hand. This appointment snuck up on her.

Pod knocks on her door a few minutes later, asks if he should put Jaime in an exam room. She shakes her head. They’ll start here, in her office, like they did that first day. 

The second Jaime walks through the door, the change in him is obvious. He was tired, anxious, a man at the end of his rope. Now there is light in his warm green eyes and shy smile. 

She stands, reminds herself to extend her left hand, and returns his smile. Her knees are annoyingly wobbly. It’s been three months. He won’t behave the way he did before. And that’s a good thing. “Mr. Lannister, I got your postcard.” 

Jaime shakes her hand, follows her gaze to a file cabinet where she’s taped his postcard, alongside others from various patients. “I know how interested you are in new treatments,” he says with a shrug, settling back into a chair across the desk from her. 

They talk about the researcher he recommended, a botanist who studies traditional remedies in a high-tech lab hidden in what Jaime calls “a shithole of a building.” She laughs at that, a little forced, the laugh of small talk between people who don’t know each other very well. 

He tells a good story. Brienne can almost see the crowded streets, taste the dust in her mouth, feel the heat of the sun. She has never been farther east than Pentos, and that was a special trip with her father for her high school graduation. 

When his tales of Meereen are exhausted, Jaime falls silent. His fingers tap against the armrest. He is once again affecting a casual posture, but his eyes betray him. They’re darting around the room, examining her simple decor, the bare tree branches outside her window, before coming back to her face, again and again. 

Brienne flips open his file, grabs a pen and jots today’s date on a blank page. He looks good. Really good. His forest green henley accentuates his eyes, and his hair is a little longer, curling at the ends. Over the last three months, Brienne half-convinced herself that he wasn’t really that attractive, that she was mis-remembering. She went on two dates, but neither man made her stomach flutter the way Jaime does.

“How have you been?” he asks tentatively.

“Fine. Busy. And isn’t that my line?” She can feel her cheeks warming. It’s embarrassing, to be caught out staring at her patient like a teenager instead of asking about his progress. 

Jaime chuckles, but he still seems nervous. “I’m excellent. Better than I’ve been in years.” He clears his throat. “So what do we do here, Doc? I don’t know how this works. I’m not really used to showing improvement.”

For a moment, Brienne can’t answer his question. Every time Jaime speaks, she expects him to pick up on their last conversation.  _ I’m not imagining this, right? There’s something here. _ Maybe he won’t. Sam set him up with a woman psychologist in King’s Landing. Maybe he’s calling  her cell phone and showing up on her running route now. Maybe that’s just what he does.

Brienne taps her pen against the page, notices the little cluster of dots already there. How long has she been doing that? “Why don’t you tell me how you’ve been using the mirror box? I’m particularly interested in how you managed while you were traveling.” 

Jaime tells her about his adventures with airport security, especially on the way back, when agents assumed a one-handed man ( _ thief _ ) traveling first class was a drug mule. He must see the question in her eyes, because he volunteers that his brother mails him the Meereenese botanist’s marijuana at regular intervals. For him it works nearly as well as opioids and without many of the side effects. He asks her not to include that in her notes. 

But his pain is greatly reduced, and the clenching sensation comes perhaps once a week instead of every day. Jaime struggles to find words to describe the difference in his pain levels. Numbers are inadequate and words aren’t much better. 

Brienne doesn’t need him to quantify the change. She sees it, she hears it. Her notes on his condition are more descriptive than clinical.  _ Patient reports reduction of symptoms, improved mood _ doesn't seem adequate.

Jaime uses the mirror box each morning, running through a series of patterns and movements to convince his brain that his arm is intact. The effect doesn’t last, so he repeats the procedure in the evenings most days. Some days he doesn’t need to. He takes his pills, attends a support group. Jaime is dismissive of the group, but Brienne is glad to hear that he is not hiding himself away as he once did. 

She asks how the new therapist is working out. 

Jaime looks away, speaks slowly and carefully. “She’s pushing me to ‘live life more fully.’” He laughs, shakes his head when he notices that he’s attempting to use air quotes with just one hand. “Anyway, I’m trying.” 

Brienne thinks she knows what he means, but his avoidance of it makes her uncertain how to respond. She glances at her watch, realizes with a start that her next patient is already waiting. They’ve been talking much longer than she thought. Brienne closes Jaime’s file. “Thank you for coming back. You’re always welcome to call if your symptoms change, but otherwise you can just schedule a check-up with Pod in a year.”

Jaime ducks his head. “Actually, I wasn’t sure how to bring it up…” He fishes something out of his back pocket and offers it to her.

Brienne reaches out to take it, unfolds the paper. It’s a request for the forwarding of his records, from a neurologist in King’s Landing. She recognizes the name. Competent but not a leader in his field. “I see.”

“It’s not a knock on you, Doc. Just something I need to do.” Jaime is apologizing, and she’s both relieved and upset that he chose a new doctor without talking to her first.

“No, please, don’t worry about it. Give this to Pod on your way out.” She stands, holds out the paper, but makes no move to leave her desk. There will be no goodbye hug this time. A clean break.

Jaime stands, takes the paper. He crumples it a little between his fingers. “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Doc. I hope you know that.” His voice is husky, and she can barely look at him, the way he’s looking at her right now. That’s what should be there, the gratitude for her work. 

“Thank you, Jaime.” She doesn’t trust herself to say more.

Jaime goes to the door, stops, turns around. "Please don’t think I’m some kind of stalker, but I’m coming back to Evenfall in about a month." 

"Why?" Evenfall in winter is nothing like the summer vacation haven he saw on his first visit. Today’s chilly drizzle should have shown him that.

Jaime fidgets as he stands by the door. "The Olympics are starting in Norvos, and I want to get off the grid. No interviews, no 'where are they now' retrospectives. You know what I mean?"

“Of course.” No one would look for him here. The locals won’t care about him. Winter sports aren’t particularly big here, except for the ski resort on the north end of the island, and it’s too pricey for anyone but rich tourists.

Jaime hesitates. "Maybe, once I’m settled in, we could get dinner sometime?" 

That fluttering feeling is back, and her face is burning. He didn’t forget their last conversation at all. She shrugs, ignores how warm his responding smile makes her feel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the chapter count goes up one more time. RL has conspired to keep me from finishing the very end of this yet, but this part can stand alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unavoidable delay. Real life sucked this month. 
> 
> Here, finally, is the conclusion.

**XVI. Jaime**

Firelight is far kinder to Brienne than the fluorescent lights of her office. Under the golden, flickering light, her fair skin glows and her blue eyes sparkle. Here Brienne is not beautiful; she is luminous.

Elegant candles, crisp white tablecloths, and red roses adorn the widely-spaced tables. The huge windows showcase a stunning view of the Straits of Tarth. The restaurant is aggressively romantic, not at all the atmosphere he expected. Jaime asked the concierge where to take someone special for dinner, and she’d booked them a table. She said they served steak and local fish. The place is named after a legendary knight, and he expected a steakhouse with swords and shields on the walls, perhaps appetizers on skewers.

He is an idiot. An underdressed, thundering fool in his chinos and cable-knit sweater. For once it’s not his prosthesis drawing attention. He and Brienne look as if they’re dressed for two entirely different dates, and he supposes they are. She looks magnificent, her black pants and blouse topped with a loose, shimmering cardigan. 

Everywhere Jaime looks, dressed-up couples look at each other adoringly, sipping drinks and sharing appetizers. A sweaty-faced guy two tables away is tossing back whiskeys and repeatedly patting his coat pocket. Maybe he’s questioning if the ring is big enough. His lady looks like she’s going to an awards show. 

The easy conversation and casual affection around them only makes the awkwardness at their table more obvious. What little talk Jaime and Brienne have managed has been stilted and their mutual efforts to avoid talking about their professional relationship mean they have little to talk about. Brienne’s white wine is nearly empty, Jaime’s vodka tonic long gone, and he doubts she’ll want to linger. 

When Brienne agreed to meet him for a drink, she carefully avoided calling this a date, even when he talked her up to dinner. She asked if he was sure when he texted her where they were meeting, and now he knows why.  

She is staring at him, annoyed, not putting her drink down between sips so she can make her escape sooner. Jaime realizes guiltily that he wasn’t even listening to her story about the Arbor triathlon, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Perhaps it’s for the best that their waiter hasn’t returned to take their entree orders yet.

“Do you want to get out of here?"

Brienne examines him over the rim of her wine glass. “Just call it a night?” 

"No, I mean, not unless you really want to. I just--this place wasn't really what I had in mind." 

She laughs a little, sets down her wine glass. "How did you even find this place?"

"Concierge," he says sheepishly. “You’ve got to give me another chance, somewhere else, unless you want to stick around and see whether Lord Cliché over there puts the ring in her dessert or her champagne."

Brienne laughs, loudly. People turn to stare at her, and she colors. Proposal guy turns to glare at them, which only makes Brienne erupt in helpless giggles. 

Jaime stands, wrestles a few bills out of his pocket, drops them on the table, and holds out his hand to her. "Come on, before they kick us out."

The pub she suggests looks like it’s about to fall into the sea, but the parking lot is full and more cars are lined up along the roadside. Brienne calls it "The Pile" even though the faded sign by the roadside says "The Castle." Jaime expects to wait outside with the others milling around the entrance, but the burly man at the door immediately ushers them inside, checking out Brienne’s ass and eyeing Jaime curiously. 

They find a table for two in a dim corner, where the only light comes from a roaring fire in the nearby fireplace. Brienne hangs her cardigan on the back of her chair, pale, freckly shoulders exposed under her sleeveless top. She quickly gives up on flagging down a waitress and muscles her way over to the bar, returning with two bottles of a dark, nutty local ale. 

This place is not particularly conducive to conversation. A band plays on the small stage, their repertoire mainly drinking songs and sea shanties spiced up with an occasional cover. The crowd knows all the lyrics and sings along with drunken enthusiasm. Jaime might worry that she chose this place to avoid talking to him, but Brienne looks more relaxed than she’s been all night. Occasionally she leans close to tell him some obscure fact about the truly ancient building or the musicians. He doesn’t mind how her arm brushes his, or her hot breath against his ear as she speaks. 

Whether the fire, the alcohol, or Brienne’s proximity is to blame, before long Jaime needs to shuck off his sweater. He’s only wearing a white T-shirt under it, exposing his entire prosthesis, but Brienne barely gives it a second glance. After several more songs, the band takes a break, the low buzz of conversation filling the pub in the absence of mandolin and drums. Jaime feels that buzz inside him, too, his belly pleasantly full from nibbling at the plates of appetizers Brienne ordered.  

When the last mini lamb pasty has disappeared from that plate, Brienne dabs her lips with a napkin and asks, "Is there something on my face?"

Jaime shakes his head, takes advantage of her distraction to toss a nugget of fried dough in his mouth. Brienne swore they were only tossed in butter, garlic, and Parmesan, but he's sure there's something addictive in there. 

"Then what are you looking at?" She holds his gaze, blue eyes searching his intently. 

At another time, with another woman, Jaime might find all this off-putting, the way she's taken control of the evening, picking this place, ordering their drinks and their food, as if she still has all the power between them. But he finds himself smiling anyway. "I'm looking at you."

She leans back in her chair, blows out a long breath. "The whole world within your reach and you came back here. Why? It can't have been to take me out for the most overpriced prime rib on the island."

"Why not?" Of course the choice to come back had everything to do with Brienne. Jaime did need to get away, but she’s right, he could have gone back to Meereen to stay with Tyrion. He could have hidden himself away in Casterly Rock, or set sail to the Summer Isles.

She shakes her head. "Don't do that. Don't pretend you don't see me."

"I see you." Jaime thinks about Alla and her dates. "I see the bump on your nose where you broke it, that sexy little vee in the muscles of your arms, and how you throw yourself fully into everything you do, from treating patients to running."

"Jaime, I--" She stops, and he’s not sure if she appreciates his words or is about to let him down gently. 

A waitress walks by, collecting empty bottles, and breaks the tension. Brienne orders two more, so at least she doesn’t plan to leave immediately. 

He laughs, tries to dispel the anxiety in her eyes. "Relax, Brienne. It’s not a marriage proposal, I just want to see more of you.”

A little line appears between her eyes as Brienne frowns, crosses her arms over her chest.

It takes him a moment to realize what he's said. “Hey, I don’t put out on the first date and I don’t expect you to, either.” It’s definitely the beer that makes Jaime laugh again, despite the warning siren going off in the disused, sober part of his brain that handles his interactions with women he wants to kiss. 

She flushes with embarrassment and turns to watch the band get ready for their next set. "I told you, I don’t date patients.” 

Jaime taps the table to get her attention back on him. "Brienne, I'm not your patient." He deliberately, openly lets his gaze wander over her, lingering on the curve of her neck, the dip of her collarbone, the full lips he would like very much to kiss later. 

“You were,” she corrects mulishly. 

Jaime leans toward her as the band begins to play again, allowing himself to rest his hand on hers for just a moment. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t at least a little curious.”

“Curious about what?” she asks cautiously. 

So many ways he could answer that question. Ways that stand a greater chance of getting him punched than dragged out to the parking lot to steam up the windows of his rental car. But Jaime isn't that guy anymore, if he ever really was. He drags a chunk of dough through the cheese on the plate and chews it slowly, making her wait. “If I see you as a conquest, something more, or just my savior.”

Brienne’s eyes widen. Did she really think he hadn’t heard about patients who fell in love with their nurses, their doctors? Sam hinted at it, and Dr. Sand explained it in great detail, then reminded him every time Brienne came up in his therapy sessions. Dr. Sand actually encouraged this trip, convinced that Jaime would finally realize that his feelings have little to do with Brienne as a woman and everything to do with her work. 

The waitress appears through the crowd, bearing two fresh bottles dripping with condensation. She stacks the empty plates efficiently on her tray, giving Jaime just enough time to wonder if he said too much.  

Brienne takes a long pull of the new bottle, waits for the boisterous drinking song to end, and says, "I don’t know who you see, but it’s not me. All you know is who I am to my patients."

Jaime wants to remind her of their conversations on the beach, the way their phone calls tended to stray from medical topics, but he holds back. “And all you know about me is my medical file. So let’s finish these appetizers, order a few desserts, and talk awhile.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What about dinner?”

“Overrated.” Jaime plucks the dessert menu off the table, a short list printed on the back of the long list of beers on tap. Sticky toffee pudding, drunken brownie with ice cream, strawberry cheesecake, apple pie. Yes, yes, no, yes. “Years of eating strictly as fuel during training left me finding little joy in dinner. Sweets, on the other hand, were rare. So there, now you know something about me.” He smiles, winks at her over the menu.

Brienne smiles back.

Conversation flows more easily after that, skirting around the landmines of their family situations (his dysfunctional, hers dead) and their working relationship, though she can’t help asking him about his new neurologist (wears his pants too short, has tropical fish tanks in every exam room).

Brienne shows him a picture of her dog, a pit bull named Goodwin that she adopted because no one else wanted an old dog, nor a breed with a bad reputation. She says he is good at hunting dropped popcorn or scraps of meat, but useless as a guard dog since he likes everyone he meets. 

Jaime tells her about the unglamorous reality of skintight luge uniforms and their tendency to rip at inopportune moments. Her delighted laughter is worth the embarrassment of telling the story. In return she tells him about the day her attending physician caught her walking out of an on-call room with her hair askew and an equally rumpled intern trailing behind her. Apparently hospitals and the Olympic village do have some things in common.

When the music is loud, they lean in close to hear each other, and twice Jaime nearly gives into his urge to kiss her. But he bides his time, waits until they find themselves still talking as the pub empties and the bartender announces last call. Jaime briefly curses that they drove separate cars, robbing him of the opportunity to walk Brienne to her door. 

Instead he spends the entire walk out to her car rehearsing how to ask her for another date. Screw playing coy and waiting a few days to call her. Jaime is only booked to stay here for three weeks, and he’s done wasting time. 

He’s almost worked out what to say when Brienne spins around abruptly, her hand against his chest. “I had a really good time,” she says, biting her lip and driving him godsdamn insane.

“You sound surprised.” 

She drops her hand, sputters, “No, Jaime, I--”

Jaime laughs. “I had a good time too.” He doesn’t want to say goodnight now, he wants to back her against the side of her SUV and kiss her senseless.

“Maybe we could do this again sometime? Or meet for a run?” 

“Yes, tomorrow, the next day, the day after that. Whenever you want. I’m not exactly booked up here, unless you count fishing with Sam, which I can cancel. In fact, please give me an excuse to cancel.” 

Her wide mouth quirks into a smile.  "What about a run Sunday morning?"

Jaime nods, tears his gaze away from her mouth long enough to notice that she’s shivering. He glances over his shoulder and gestures at his rental car, sitting alone several aisles over. “I should let you go before you freeze.”

Brienne is much closer when he turns back, and then she is kissing him, soft and warm and over before he has much chance to respond. When she pulls away, her eyes are soft and dark, and her words billow out into the space between them in a puff of icy breath. “I see you too. You care about people a lot more than you let on.”

She is already climbing into her car before Jaime stops feeling like a green boy, tongue-tied and dizzy from the simple press of her lips against his. “Goodnight, Brienne,” he finally manages.

Her door closes, and Jaime turns toward his rental car, his feet slipping a little in the gravel. Her engine turns over, headlights spearing a cool bright line through the parking lot. She waits until he reaches his car, lighting his path over the uneven ground. 

Jaime's arm starts to ache from the cold, and he gets lost twice on his way back to the hotel. He’s still humming a song he heard earlier when he walks through the lobby, ignoring the concierge’s question about his date. Nothing and no one can ruin his good mood tonight.


End file.
